Painting Flowers
by SuspiciousFlashlight
Summary: "I don't think we should be friends. It isn't that safe." "Since when did you care about safety?" First Dip story, criticism accepted. Please leave a review, it'll be much appreciated. Bad at summaries, story is better.
1. Chapter 1

"But everyone calls me Pip, because they hate me."

"Then I will call you Pip."

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><p><strong>Rating:<strong> T for Damien's swearing and adult themes.  
><strong>Pairing[s]:<strong> Damien + Pip.  
><strong>Disclaimer[s]:<strong> South Park belongs to Matt Stone and Trey Parker.

**Author's Thoughts 1:** This is my first Damien/Pip story, ever. I've never written for this pairing, and it was really hard to figure out Damien, I tried to keep him from going OOC, I think I did well. Actually, same with Pip, they're complicated characters to write for since neither of them had much Canon screen time, especially together. I've watched Damien's episode maybe 3 times, in a row, to try and get his speech pattern mastered; I think I did well. Updates to this story and ALL of my stories [unfortunately I may need to put the powers au on temporary hiatus] will be very slow, seeing as I just got a new puppy and he's taking up a lot of my time. Criticism will be well appreciated.

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><p><em><strong>[Damien's Point of View.]<strong>_

Have you ever walked on walls? Most people can't say they have, but most people will say they've thought about it. It's a lot like the concept of flying, and how much humans dream of it, how much they want it. Humans can't _really_ walk on walls, or fly, and that's probably why the want to.

While it would be exhilarating to see the world from the side or upside down, or gracefully soar through mountain cliffs, humans probably want these things because they can't have them, at least not easily or safely. Whether it's magical powers, immortality, or prove magical creatures exist, they always want it. I can't understand why, and frankly, I've never bothered to put my time into finding out why.

When I turned 18, I _started_ to understand. Not much. I had been going through a lot of changes; my tongue forked, my horns started to come in, my tail grew, my ears spiked, I started thinking more about my position as 'Prince' of Hell. But, that's not all. I started to develop more emotions than anger; when I was younger, all I could feel was burning anger, towards everything that dare lay it's eyes on me.

But that changed around my birthday. At first, I only woke up with an oddly numb feeling in my chest. After laying there in confusion for a while, I left my room and walked into the kitchen, where my Father was standing there in a white apron with little flowers on it, probably a spare. I laughed.

Satan, naturally, whirled around in confusion and nearly dropped the food he was busy preparing. I covered my mouth in shock, eyes as wide as saucers, and the pancake flopped out of his pan. I laughed again. I couldn't stop laughing. I dropped to the floor laughing, at this point, nothing. My Father told me it was just all of my emotions catching up on me, but this was only after I started uncontrollably sobbing for the rest of the day.

I learned that some emotions I liked, some I didn't. My body liked the feeling of joy, excitement, laughter, but my mind didn't. My body didn't like the feeling of anger, annoyance or greed, but my mind didn't. For months I was in a constant war with myself, until all of my emotions mellowed to the point they were manageable.

And now, I'm starting to understand why humans always strive for what they can't physically have. I want something that I can never have, and I want it more than I've ever wanted anything else.

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><p><em><strong>[Pip's Point of<strong>** View.]**_

I've always thought a good way to pass time was painting. I did it back in England plenty, and when I was a child. There's a field in the woods near Stark's Pond that, in the Spring and Summer, has the most beautiful wildflowers.

My first painting of the wildflowers was during the Spring when there were only patches of snow left. It was crude, as it should have been, colors lazily chosen and lines too thick and runny. Awful, really. But at least 3 days of a week, in all seasons, I come out and paint the clearing. All of the trees, the snow, the flowers, the grass, the sky. My room is now covered in different canvases of this one scene, painted over and over again, tracking my improvement.

I say, as humbly as possible, that now my paintings of the flowers look like photographs. My adoptive parents compliment me every day and say that I should sell some of my early works, but I always turn it down. I could make a lot of money, but I would rather keep the memories with me, nailed to my wall like a time-line.

It's not an unusual sight to see me hauling an easel and bucket out through the woods, and nobody seems to comment anymore. It takes a while to walk, at least 20 minutes, but the scenery is always breathtaking, even when the trees are sticks and snow covers everything in a layer of white. The clearing, today, is missing many of it's flowers, only a few sticking up from the snow.

I smile and set my easel and bucket down, pulling over a stool I covered with a blanket and left in the clearing. I take a seat and spread some colors over a pallet, wiping a wet paintbrush on my leg, and start to paint.

I only get to paint for an hour or so, before the scenery is disturbed. I notice a glowing light behind my canvas. Suspiciously and slowly, I step down from my stool and walk around the easel to see what's happening. On the growing, glowing and melting the snow, is a large pentagram, burning quietly.

I gasp, eyes widening, taking a step back in fear. Fire starts to rise in the center of the pentagram as a roar shakes the trees around it. I see my life flashing before my eyes as the flames tower higher, higher, smoke covering the sky, until it all fades back into the pentagram as it slowly disappears.

My eyes are closed and forearms hiding my face, legs shaking. I don't dare to look and see what came from the flames; it could be Satan or an even scarier demon. I'll be dead soon, it'll kill me, oh no...

"You! Infidel!" a voice shouts towards me, but not the voice of Satan. I shakily lower my arms and open my eyes, looking to the figure in the center of the pentagram, who is storming towards me.

They're tall, very tall, maybe 6 feet or more. Black pants and a black turtleneck, with short black hair, wearing a silver upside-down cross around their neck. They have boots and a long, thin tail, with fur at the end where the spade shape ends the tail, horns coming from their head, eyes a glowing red with a scowl on their face.

Why are they so familiar?

"Alright mortal, where am I? What year is this?" the demon growls, a flame starting to grow in their eyes as they raise their hand towards me. I feel my body hovering upward, muscles twisting until I cry out in pain.

"I-It's South Park, Colorado!" I whine, voice shaking and cracking as it comes out. The teenager stares at me for a while, all with a snarl, before his jaw clenches and I tumble to the ground, muscles relaxed.

"South Park, Colorado," he says quietly to himself. I sit down on my knees, holding my head and looking up to stare at him, hat now disregarded to the side. His eyes stop flaming and glowing, staring down into mine as his features soften. "Hey...aren't you...uh,"

"I-I'm Phillip, do I know you?"

His eyebrows raise slightly before lowering again. "Pip," he says, very quietly, just under a whisper.

"Huh? How do you know me?"

"Don't...you recognize me?"

"I-I'm afraid I don't, sir," I say nervously while standing up, making sure my posture is small and passive. "sh-should I?"

"It's," he suddenly stops, putting his fist to his Adam's apple and coughing, until his voice comes out at a squeaky tone. "It's me, Damien, Son of Satan? Antichrist? Does this ring a bell?"

I tilt my head slowly, trying not to smile at the amusing pitch of his voice, before my face lights up and a smile breaks out. "Oh, yes, I remember you! Damien! It's...been a very long time,"

Damien coughs again, speaking in a much deeper voice, "It has. How long?"

I pick up my hat and put it back on, placing a hand on my chin. "A little under ten years...I'm eighteen now, I assume you're..."

"Nineteen, in mortal years." Damien replies, his tail flicking into the snow. My face pales some.

"W-Why do you have a tail...and horns? You didn't have those when we were younger," I ask nervously, taking a step back, which seems to disappoint him.

"I got them when I matured. I could get rid of them if they bothered you, or if I cared about what you felt. In fact, I think I'll keep them, _just_ to bother you." he smiles widely, exposing sharp canines with a reddish tint. A shiver runs down my spine.

"Ah, righto then, it's...nice to see you again, Damien. Have you been well?" I ask, dusting the snow off the back of my pants, trying to stay casual. Damien pauses, legs closed tightly together, shoulders back in a very proud posture, tail swaying.

"I suppose,"

"Why are you here on Earth?" I ask.

"Well, it isn't to warn everyone that the day of reckoning is coming, like last time." he gives me a smile, a very soft one. When we were children, he didn't really smile, for the small amount of time I knew him. And when he did, it was only before and after he set me on fire and sent me flying into the clouds. That wasn't very pleasant. "But it isn't really any of your business why I'm here, is it?"

"I guess not," I reply with a nervous, shy smile. "is there somewhere you wanted to be in specific? I can take you, if you'd like."

"No, nowhere in specific."

"So you just...wanted to be on Earth for a little while?"

"Precisely. You aren't that dumb, for a worthless human." he smiles again, exposing those dangerous canines. I don't smile in return, only shuffle my feet, feeling anxious to get back to painting.

"Right, well, I'd like to get back to painting now, Damien, if that's alright with you." I say politely, not waiting for a reply before walking back to my seat and picking up my brush again.

"Painting?" I hear him say as he walks over to me, boots crunching in the snow. "What are you painting, snow?"

"Well, for many years, I've been painting this clearing and the flowers. I have countless paintings of it," I say proudly, smiling at the unfinished lines and soft colors on the canvas. Damien's red eyes widen and then narrow, looking at the picture, and then the clearing.

"I don't think you'll be able to, now," he says, "there's a pentagram burned in the ground."

"What?!" I gasp, sitting up so quickly the easel almost falls forward. I look over the canvas and see there is, in fact, a dark pentagram burned into the ground. Damien looks to the pentagram and then to me, lips pursed and eyebrows raised, as if he doesn't understand the distraught expression on my face.

"What?" he asks casually.

"I've been painting this place for years..." I say sadly, staring at the unfinished painting on the easel with wet eyes. Damien looks to the clearing, the canvas, and then to me again, more confused than he had probably ever been.

"I don't understand what the problem is," he says dumbly.

"Well, I can't just draw it with a pentagram now, my parents are Catholic!" I exclaim, sitting down in defeat. "This was my sanctuary...this is what I did for therapy, and now I can't anymore! I'll have to find a new place!"

Damien takes his hands out of his pockets, looking unsure of what to do. "I...can try to fix it, but I don't think I can 'un-burn' something," he mumbles awkwardly, hands hovering out in front of him like they don't belong to him.

"Oh, don't bother..." I say with a tight throat and a heavy heart. Damien looks down to me again with his eyebrows creased, the ends of his mouth pinched.

"Well...well what if I did something else," Damien says quickly, making me lift my head to meet his gaze.

"Like what? I want to paint something beautiful...how are you going to make a burnt pentagram on the ground beautiful?" I mutter with a weak voice. Damien's eyes shift around before he stumbles to the center of the pentagram again, eyes starting to glow and flame. I step out from behind the easel to watch, curious but doubtful.

Damien summons flames from the sides of the pentagram until the flames surround the circle. His pale, thin fingertips dance and sway as he makes the flames to his sides and behind him grow, up into the sky, eventually making them twist. I narrow my eyes, frown starting to lighten as a shape starts to take place with the tendrils of fire.

A wildflower, probably the most common kind, is formed in the sky with bright, swirling flames, Damien's arms outstretched and hands upturned, a small, uncertain smile on his face.

"Is this beautiful?" he asks nervously.

I don't reply, only stare at him in confusion. He's nothing like I remember him. I remember him as a bitter, ye-olde-speaking, demon of a child, who only talked to me because nobody else would. Even when he emerged from the flames at first, he reminded me of how I knew him. As soon as he recognized me, he seemed to change, into something I could only describe as an awkward teenager who isn't sure how to act around people.

"Hey, weakling, are you even paying attention?!" he shouts to me, making me jump. "I'm trying to _do_ something for you!"

"Oh, I-I'm sorry Damien, it's gorgeous! Could you...hold it for a few hours, so I can paint it?"

"_A few hours_?!"

"Yes, I'm terribly sorry, it's okay if you can't," I say, my voice getting quieter and quieter as I stare at the flames. They're truly spectacular, I've never seen fire take a shape of a wildflower against a cloudy grey sky. I don't think many people can say they have!

"Are you going to paint me in it?"

"Would you be angry with me if I did?"

"No, I just want to know if I'm going to be in it or not."

"You'll find out!" I call back, walking behind the easel and taking a seat. I give a long glance to the black paint, the primary color I would use for him. I shake my head quietly, I shouldn't. He looks too demonic, and my parents are Catholic. I can't draw a demon into this, and I'm sure he won't mind. I can't imagine he'd actually _want_ me to paint him into it.

So, in maybe half an hour, I finish the flowers, snow, sky, and trees, since I already had progress on them. I take a deep breath, staring at the picture; I could leave it like this, but...what a spectacular show happening above me.

I'll paint it. With all of my other pictures, it could be possible that I've gone insane from drawing the same old thing, or, someone might believe it was real. I'm okay with either.

"Hurry the fuck up, Frenchie!"

"I'm not French!"

We've had this exchange countless times in the last hour, but I'm almost done. "Just a few more minutes, I'm almost done."

"I remember why I never come up to the mortal plain, I end up doing things like this! Wow, when I go back, I'm _staying_ back!" he complains, though he doesn't lose form. I roll my eyes, not really caring. Damien and I had never been friends, we just...talked. And then he blew me up. But, I think I might be the only person who ever _tried_ to break his shell. Not that he let me.

"Okay...done," I sigh, figuring I can add anything else later, and I shouldn't keep Damien here any longer. I hear him sigh and growl with relief, the flames vanishing, only now allowing me to see how dark it really was.

"Finally, can I see it?" he asks while walking over to me, nearly shoving me over to get a look at the easel, which I push back so he can see better. He's silent for a while, eyes tracing up and down the lines of the fire he previously made. "It's alright."

I smile some, the end of my nose a bright red from the chill. "Why, thank you, Damien," I say politely. "Are you going home now?"

Damien flinches. "Yeah."

"Do you not _want_ to go home?"

"No, I do. I don't want to be around your loser-ass any longer," Damien affirms, "but...I suppose it's better than the same old-same old."

"I'm a delight to be around, lately," I say excitedly, "although it's only my mother that says so. But I trust her! I do believe I've changed, Damien, maybe you can give me a chance,"

"Give you a chance for _what_?" Damien inquires, looking down to me with a slightly offended look.

"To...be your friend, of course," I say, smile fading some from the accusatory glare he holds. "unless you don't want to." I quickly add.

"Do you have a place for me to stay?"

"Like, a bed?"

"No. A place. I don't sleep."

"Ah, right. I do."

"Fine then, Pip. I'll stay with you. Not because I like you, I hate you, but because you're the only person _dumb_ enough to do it."

"Splendid!" I say as I pick up the canvas, easel and bucket. "Can you help me carry this? I don't want to smudge the wet paint, it's very awkward to hold all of this."

"I didn't say I would be your lackey." Damien says while starting to walk, flicking his tail and making a whipping noise with it. I huff, smile, roll my eyes, and quickly follow him, bucket clanging loudly against my leg.


	2. Chapter 2

**Rating:** T for Damien's swearing and adult themes.  
><strong>Pairing[s]:<strong> Damien + Pip.  
><strong>Disclaimer[s]:<strong> South Park belongs to Matt Stone and Trey Parker.

**Author's Thoughts 2: **I don't know, not much was in this chapter, but I have something good for the next one. Or, I might be lying, and it'll be more boring. Who knows? You'll have to find out. About Damien eating chocolate ramen, I got that from a Tumblr blog for South Park headcanons, you should go check them out.

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><p><em><strong>[Third Person<strong>_** View.]**

Pip admires himself in the mirror while brushing his teeth, combing his fingertips through his hair, dragging his nails down his scalp. He grunts while spitting out the toothpaste foam, turning on the faucet to clean out the sink. He raises his head and lets out a small shriek when seeing Damien behind him in the mirror, grinning wide.

"Bloody hell!" he whines shakily, clutching his bare chest. He looks down to his hand, only now being fully conscious of the fact he was in his boxers. "And who do you think you are sneaking up on me when I'm in my undergarments?"

"I didn't think it would be such a big deal, you didn't have any signs on the door," Damien replies. "You slept well, by the way."

Pip doesn't reply, knowing very well that Damien would have watched him in his sleep. "Thank you for informing me," Pip says with a small scowl, walking past Damien on his way to the hallway. The Antichrist follows like a puppy, making his way up to Pip's side. "want anything to eat? Or, do you eat human food?"  
>"Oh, I do, sometimes," Damien responds thoughtfully, "though it's hardly mortal food."<p>

"Okay, what can I fix you?" Pip asks while floating into the kitchen, Damien stopping in the doorway, looking confused, but the expression quickly settles into one of satisfaction.

"Do you have instant noodles?" Damien asks, standing next to the fridge, tilting his head. Pip looks back to him with a smile, briefly admiring the way his clothing seems to blend together so he stands tall as a completely straight, smooth figure. Wearing white socks, of course.

"You like those? My parents eat it, mostly, but it isn't bad when you're in a hurry."  
>"Yeah, yeah, do you have them?"<p>

"I have a few left!" Pip exclaims happily, holding up the small, Styrofoam cups. Damien's expression doesn't change. "I assume you want me to change them somehow,"

Damien nods and walks so smoothly it's like he's floating, making his way over to Pip at the counter. He takes the container from him, fingers brushing together, leaving a warm feeling against the blonde's digits. "Uh-huh," Damien says lamely, "chocolate shavings."

Pip raises his eyebrow. "Chocolate shaving in instant noodles?"

"Did I stutter?" Damien asks, tilting his head and raises his eyebrows.

Pip opens his mouth and raises a finger, before closing it and muttering softly, "No, I guess you didn't." he takes a deep breath, puts a smile on his face and turns around, the ends of his hair smacking against Damien's lips and nose. "Alright, I'll get some chocolate shavings for you!"

Damien doesn't reply, only watches Pip as he stands on his tip-toes to reach the top shelf. He smiles a little, setting the cup down on the counter, watching the way Pip's muscles stretch, listening to the little grunting noises he makes. He's so tolerant, any human would probably insult Damien for his weird tastes, but Pip barely said a word.

"You're so sweet, Pip," Damien muses quietly with a smile. Pip's body freezes, his head turning to face him in confusion.

"Ah, pardon me?" Pip says breathlessly.

"You are _so_ sweet, it makes me want to take your head off and use your spine as a straw for your blood," Damien says while waving his hands up and down with a completely straight face. Pip's face goes pale as he coughs loudly and turns back towards the shelves.

"A-alright then, Damien. Can you put water on for the noodles?"

Damien frowns some, suppressing a growl in his throat. He couldn't get a reaction out of this kid that wasn't completely positive. What did it take to make him crack?

The Antichrist sighs and extends a slender finger towards the kettle on the stove, sending a stream of fire towards it, making the water inside immediately boil, steam making the kettle scream. Pip's head whips around in surprise and lifts the top of the kettle to silence the noise.

"Well, I wasn't quite ready," Pip says softly, putting a finger on his chin. "but better soon than later. Do I put the chocolate in now or after?" he says while turning his head to face Damien, big, innocent, blue eyes locking onto Damien's thin, red ones.

He clears this throat after finding it to be tighter than he remembered. "N-Now." Damien pauses, "Um, mortal." he adds quickly.

Pip chuckles, barely loud enough for Damien to hear, as he pours the boiling water into the cup and over the chocolate shavings. Damien has already forgotten about the prospect of one of his favorite foods, or the fact Pip made it for him, only the fact he was really, really pissed off at the little British boy.

Why? He doesn't know.

"Why am I so mad at you?" he asks, pupils growing in curiosity as his eyes dart over Pip's features.

"Well, I don't know, Damien, have I done something wrong?" Pip asks with a slight edge to his voice. Damien almost expected him to start bumping his knuckles together like that other blonde human boy, 'Butters'.

"For starters, you exist," Damien says simply, "but in the past 5 minutes, I don't think so. I just...want to grab you. Really hard."

"I-If you want to, you can, I won't fight back," Pip says quickly, as if it's routine, as he pulls his arms closer together to make them easier to grab. Damien furrows his brow even more.

"Okay, no! That's the kind of shit that'll piss someone off! Haven't you ever stood up for yourself? Go on, insult me, or _something_!"

Pip stays quiet, eyes slightly narrowed in focus, roaming Damien's face. A part of him feels violated, he didn't normally let mortals look at him this long without being harmed in some way or other.

"I don't know, I think this is a set up. I'll insult you, and you'll hurt me because I did so, right?" Pip says in a casual tone. Damien smiles, noticing the guarded look in his eyes and the stiffness of his voice. The situation had made him upset. Good.

"You've gotten smarter since I knew you."

"Well, it has been a while." Pip says with a smile as the stove timer went off. "Food is done!"

"Great, now I don't have to make small talk,"

"Oh, Damien, you should never feel obliged to have a conversation with me," Pip says with a smile, holding out the Styrofoam cup for Damien to take. Damien smiled back, wrapping his hand around Pip's smaller one, and the cup, leaning in to be close to Pip's face.

"Well, us demons, we're like vampires. We need to ask permission before we come inside. We're polite, so we make small talk, but that doesn't mean we have to make talk about nice things." he says, very quietly, blowing his breath right into Pip's mouth. Pip's pupils get smaller in fear, but Damien quickly pulls his head away, taking the cup along with him. "Aren't you going to eat anything?"

"...I...don't have much of an appetite, thank you," Pip mumbles as Damien takes a seat at the kitchen table, Pip slowly following and sitting across from him. "Did I make it right?"

"Your chocolate isn't half as good as the stuff in Hell," Damien remarks, though he knows it's much sweeter than the type he has at home. "but it's alright."

"Oh, good! I'm glad I made it correctly," Pip smiles, "should I remember how in case you come over again?"

"_In case_?" Damien repeats. "You can expect me here a lot."

Pip's smile grows more as he bounces once in his seat.

"It's just because it's easy to manipulate you into doing what I want," Damien says quickly to try and break Pip's spirit, "not because I like you."

"I'm quite aware you hate me, and I think it's safe to say I hate you also, but it'll be nice to have company," Pip says without breaking his smile. Damien cracks his own smile.

"So, the hatred is mutual,"

"Oh, very mutual."

_**=/=**_

Damien ate, slowly, carefully, struggling not to smile. Pip made it taste better than any slaves of his could, even though there wasn't a huge difference. It just felt better to eat, probably because a human made it, without his actual request.

"Well, I'm going to wander around your house," Damien announces, standing up from his seat. Pip looks up from his book, blowing a strand of hair away from his surprised face.

"Avoid my parents' room, okay?"

"Why?"

"Because it's their room, and their privacy."

"Okay, sure," Damien dismisses lamely, turning away from the table and gliding down the hallway, quickly disappearing down the hall.

He drags his hand along the wall, his fingerprints making burn marks in the hall, that Pip would have to frantically paint over soon. He smiles while pressing them harder to make the burns deeper, stopping at a closed, white door.

Damien shrugs, the upside-down cross on his chest jiggling some with the movement as he reaches for the doorway. His hand feels slightly stiff, wrapped around the gold-painted door-handle, but he shakes it off and opens the door.

As soon as his brain processes what he sees in the room, he's frozen to the spot. 3 knitted Bible verses on the walls, 4 crosses, white sheets and a Jesus lamp. What the fuck? Was this the Virgin Mary's bedroom?

Without thinking, he takes a step forward, before immediately dropping to the ground and letting out a cry of pain. What the fuck? Was this room honestly _blessed_? Who blesses their bedroom?!

Knowing he's immobilized and about to burst into flames, he takes a deep breath and calls out in a scratchy voice,

"PIP!"

He hears faint scrambling down the hall until Pip slides against the doorway, a shocked expression crossing his face. "I told you not to go in here!"

Damien only groans, holding his head, curled up on the ground.

"I-Is it safe to touch you?"

Damien can't breathe. Pip panics briefly, grabbing Damien's shirt and starting to drag him through the doorway and back into the hall. The noirette finally takes a big, deep breath, hands shaking as he comes to his feet, blood dripping from his fingernails and his eyes.

"Are you alright?" Pip asks quickly, trying not to look Damien in the eye. He frowns deeply, wiping some blood off his hands.

"Don't touch me."

"I didn't try to..."

"Don't even talk to me."

Pip stays silent, just standing at Damien's side as they both stare into his parent's room, which has two footprints burned in red in the wood. Maybe blessing your room was like leaving flour on the ground for a ghost; you'd know if a demon walked into your room.

"Who the _fuck...blesses...their...bedroom_?" Damien seethes, looking ready to burn the house down, fingertips swaying dangerously.

"My parents do," Pip replies quietly, "ever since they knew Satan liked to make visits to this town, they blessed their room, since the rest of the house was 'un-blessable'."

"Why were they 'un-blessable'?"

"I don't know, the priest just couldn't do it correctly in those rooms, so we gave up," Pip shrugs, starting to calm down. "Are you sure you're okay? You sounded pretty hurt..."

Damien scoffs, "I'm fine, dipshit. It was just shock," he mumbles. "but from this point on, this _never happened._ Understand, Frenchie?"

Pip doesn't even address the cultural mishap. "Okay, I can do that, but what do we do about the footprints in the ground? They'll know a demon was in their room."

"That's simple," Damien says with a smile. "I leave, and you get punished for allowing a demon on the premises, without them knowing I was even here. Have fun dealing with your parents!" Damien sings, snapping his fingers and vanishing with a small puff of fire. Pip coughs and waves the smoke out of his face until it fades away.

"Oh, dear." he mutters upon hearing the front door open.


	3. Chapter 3

**Rating:** T for Damien's swearing and adult themes.  
><strong>Pairing[s]:<strong> Damien + Pip.  
><strong>Disclaimer[s]:<strong> South Park belongs to Matt Stone and Trey Parker.

**Author's Thoughts 3:** Remember when, in the last chapter, I said I would have something big planned? I actually didn't have anything big planned, which is why this took so long to put out. I was fuck-out-of-luck for ideas, especially for something exciting. And besides, who puts something exciting in chapter THREE? Some people do. But I don't. I like to pace my stories, or, try to. But, there is SOMETHING in this chapter. I themed it off conversations with parents, so both parties are talking to parental figures about their issues!

And, GUESS WHAT? IT'S NOT 3,000 WORDS! I LIED! AGAIN!

I know. I just got a new RP partner for Dip, so I was inspired, but I couldn't make this theme fit into 3,000 words. If anyone has ideas for plot, please send me a message, I'll credit you...

Anyway, enjoy. It's sad.

* * *

><p>"Damien, my son, you've barely left your room today, what's wrong?" Satan asks, deep and commanding voice sounding soft and concerned. Damien looks up from his position on the couch, curly hair pushed out of his completely straight face.<p>

"Nothing, Dad," he sighs before looking back to the TV.

"I think something is wrong...would you prefer to talk to Chris?"

"No, I don't want to talk to Chris! There's nothing wrong," Damien grunts as Satan takes a seat next to his disheveled son.

"Okay, can we talk about something else, then?" Satan asks. Damien growls, turning off the TV and disregarding the remote.

"What do you really want, Dad?"

"I've barely seen you around Hell, Damien," Satan says slowly, voice getting stiffer, "where _have_ you been? You know how I feel about you spending time up on Earth during your maturing stage."

Damien pauses, looking at his father's slightly condescending gaze. "I've been here, you obviously aren't very good at finding me." Damien lies coldly. Satan obviously doesn't buy it.

"Look, Dami,"

"Don't call me that," Damien interrupts quickly.

"Right...Damien, you know you can tell me anything," Satan says with his hands on his knees, trying to be as gentle as possible. Damien sighs, staring at the blank TV screen, anything to avoid his father's eyes.

He thinks about Pip, his gentle smile, how easy he is to toy with. His wide, innocent, blue eyes, his silly style and his selflessness. He refused to picture a day he would have to go locked away from all of that. Who would he tease?

"I'm not lying to you, father," Damien mutters through clenched teeth, "I haven't been going up on Earth. There's nothing on Earth that I can't get from here."

"I know how lonely you get..." Satan says sadly, making Damien's muscles stiff. He hated being reminded of his sadness—demons weren't supposed to feel anything even along the lines of that, and he lived a life of shutting those things out.

"I don't get lonely, father. Go away."

"Look, it's okay, maybe I can bring some of your friends down here for a few hours—"

"Get. Away. From. Me."

Satan sighs softly and stands up, walking away from the couch in defeat. Damien doesn't move until he's gone, slouching back into the cushions and turning the TV back on for a distraction. But he couldn't deny the throbbing numbness in his chest; the dangerous feeling of loneliness.

It's not fair! Damien is half-human, forced to feel things like this, when all he wants to do is be a demon. There's nothing up there for him in the human world, nothing but emotions and meaningless chit-chat.

"Don't kid yourself," Damien scoffs to himself. He knows he can't avoid what he really wants. Ever since his human emotions kicked in, he's forgot about his ambitions towards being a demon. His life revolves around a war inside himself.

He wants to be a human, lead a human life. But he wants to be a demon and have a demon life. There's no in between and the two sides refuse to settle on a compromise; the closest he'll get to a compromise is the lying he's doing right now. But it's never safe to lie to his father, and eventually, soon, Satan will figure it out.

'_Well what the fuck am I supposed to do about it?_' Damien scolds himself mentally, sinking lower into the couch, his strong grip making the remote snap in half. '_It's my body. It's my mind. I should be able to decide what I want to do without having all of these...these...drawbacks! I want to just forget about being human! But...no, yes, no...fuck!_'

"Dad?"

"Yes, Damien?"

"Can...can I ask you something?"

* * *

><p>The two little headstones are neatly set aside from the other graves, in the very far corner of the yard. Nobody noticed, nobody cared; besides, who would visit them other than their beloved son?<p>

Nobody did tell little Phillip what happened to his parents. He can vaguely remember someone saying they left him because he was a failure or a disgrace, something along the lines of that. But he knew now, not that if mattered.

"Hello," Pip says quietly, taking a seat on the damp grass after setting a towel down in front of the graves. He smiles softly at the names etched in stone; the most intimate knowledge he'll ever have of them. He wishes nothing more than to remember their faces, but they died when he was too young to remember. "I've got some very important news for you today!"

Pip waits a few seconds, as if expecting a response, but being fully aware he'll never have one. "Damien—you remember him, don't you?—has been spending time with me for the past few days. Now, I know you may not be that approving of him, considering what he did to me when we were children," he pauses again. "but he's changed. He's treating me...better! Better than most do."

There's silence. It's so quiet, Pip swears he can hear the snow falling next to him, slowly stacking up a blanket of serenity.

"But...I do have some concerns," Pip mutters, "probably the same concerns you have about him yourself. Sure, he's _more_ kind to me, but he's still...still...scary. Dangerous, even. I just don't know if it's right to be around him! I mean, he could really hurt me, and he doesn't seem to be against the idea! But, he's my only friend, if I can even consider him a friend."

Pip stops talking to smile and reach out towards the headstones. He traces his finger in the damp, freezing stones, following the lines of his mother's etched name. She was probably beautiful; with a plump, warm body, long blonde hair and the most striking blue eyes. She must have loved Pip very, very much. He holds the side of the headstone and imagines his hand cupping the side of his mother's cheek, sitting in complete silence.

His eyes dart to the other headstone; it seems a bit older, with a chip in the side. Perhaps his father was like this; a tall, stocky man with wrinkles and short brown hair, maybe even green eyes. He probably planned on teaching Pip all types of discipline and the proper way to treat a woman, whereas his mother would teach him kindness and manners.

Pip taught himself.

"It's...been nice talking to you two again. I think I've solved my problem, though." Pip says quietly while letting his hand drift off the side of his mother's headstone. "I...I love you both. Have a nice evening."

Pip stands up slowly, leaving the blanket there in the snow, turning away fast and walking out of the graveyard. He doesn't turn back after sliding through the black, rusted gate, and only takes a breath once the yard is out of reach.

"Pip?" a voice calls out to him from a little ways away on the sidewalk in front of him. Pip looks up through bleary eyes, making eye contact with a tall, black-haired teenager, staring at him curiously.

"Ah, Damien, are you okay?"

"Why would you ask that?"

"It's the...polite thing to do," he says after a short breath. Damien briefly vanishes and appears closer to Pip, filling his nostrils with the sharp stench of smoke.

"I'm fine, are you?"

"Not...not really."

Damien hesitates, pulling on his turtleneck collar. "Err...alright," he says carefully, Pip staring at him with pleading, lonely eyes. "I'm going to go home the—"

The Antichrist stops talking abruptly when Pip throws his hands around him, leaning his face into the warm fabric of his dark shirt. Damien lifts his arms up to his sides in surprise, eyes wide and lips pursed. _What does he expect me to do? Hold him?_

He slowly, slowly lowers his arms around Pip's back, patting just below his head. "Ah...it's okay?"

Pip lets out a small laugh that doesn't stray very far away from a sob. "You don't have to say anything, or even hold me. Just don't burn me." he says shakily.

And with that, Damien holds him just a little tighter. "No promises," he says with a deep, threatening rumble.


End file.
